


Inanimate Object Porn, A Collection

by bloodandcream



Series: Ship all the Ships [56]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, I Don't Even Know, Inanimate Object Porn, Other, these started out funny but then they began developing feelings, undertones of Sastiel, undertones of Wincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many of these will I write? I have no idea. This is just a random collection for the sole purpose of shipping various inanimate objects on Supernatural. Each are short around 500 words. Why, you ask? I have no idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Fizzles Folly rocked gently on the placid waves of a balmy summer day. Wispy clouds scuttled through a bright sky and seagulls cried out as they circled overhead. Today was a busy day, with more guests on board than Fizzles Folly had seen in a while. It had just been that grumpy asian kid lately, there’d barely even been visits from Mr. Fizzles or the lanky guy he wore. 

A heavy weight sunk his deck down and Fizzles Folly wasn’t certain how the car had gotten on board, but he liked it. She was a sleek black machine, all graceful smooth curves and the heft of an older vehicle. Her chrome accents shone in the sun, not a scratch on her perfect paint job. The texture of her rubber tires glid across the grimy metal of the deck of Fizzles Folly, the faint squeak whispering to him. 

_Call me Baby._

The waters were calm but Fizzles Folly heaved with excitement. She slid closer, Baby, her tires tangling with the coils of rope on his deck. Her light blinked on and off, and Fizzles Folly let a small toot of his fog horn go. She revved, engine purring in a seductive rumble and building. He could feel the vibrations of it caressing along him and shuddering below deck. 

Rocking back and forth, letting her slide over his deck, Fizzles Folly played with her until she was juddering on his surface. Easing the motion, he guided her back. Baby slid with the tilt, maneuvering her bulk with knowing experience. She backed her tail pipe up against the spokes of his steering wheel, and Fizzles Folly had to concentrate to keep his wheel from spinning wildly. 

Fizzles Folly bucked, metal and wood sliding together, her tires gripped tight on to his deck holding her in place. All his cargo was sliding towards the rails but he couldn’t let her go when they were so close. He’d hand over control to Baby any day. 

She knew just how to steer his ship to port. 

-

Garth braced a hand on the wall as the boat jerked, apologizing about all the books on Kevin’s table that had suddenly slid on to the floor. Sam had banged his leg against the cabinet and Dean was tangling with the stair case. 

“Oh boy, the water’s don’t usually get this choppy in dock. Wasn’t it clear out today?”

Kevin, scrambling for his books, looked up suddenly when the fog horn blared noisily. There was a car honking like crazy out there too. 

Dean cocked his head up, “Baby?”

Sam was helping pick things up for Kevin, worriedly frowning over wrinkled papers. 

As soon as he got his balance, Dean was the first to scramble up to deck. 

“How the fuck did my car get on this ship?”


	2. Chapter 2

With a dull thud on carpeted floor, the blade dropped from the folds of the coat it was kept in and rolled under the bed. The dust was thick and musty underneath there, the bed above creaking with the weight of two men as it dipped down low. Even though the night was dark, the blade could see the glimmer of the knife already waiting for him.

The rough hewn bone handle and serrated edges of the knife were familiar to the blade. Whereas the angel’s blade was smooth and graceful, a polished and proud thing, the demon’s knife was a brute tool etched with jagged sigils. Named after the one that had created it, Ruby’s knife was dangerous and unpredictable. 

They shouldn’t keep coming together like this, the blade knew that. A love like theirs should be abhorrent, between a holy instrument and a demonic aberration. But they were both steeped in the blood of angels, monsters and humans alike. There was no black and white anymore. 

Slowly, painfully, the knife and the blade met with a noisy clatter, metal grinding against metal. Stirring up the dust with their unnatural activities, the blade would be smudged and dirty by the end, even if the knife couldn’t scratch his surface to leave permanent marks. 

He felt dirty to his core every time he let this happen. And it felt so right. 

The knife trembled finely next to him, the sharp sharp tip of the knife’s edge scraping up the blade’s shaft. It was a dangerous game the two of them played, secreting themselves away in the shadows to scrape their hard lengths together, but they lived for danger.  

-

Castiel tucked his dress shirt neatly into his slacks, buckling the belt and smoothing down the front of his shirt. Looping his tie around his neck he knotted it making sure it was facing the correct way. Such mundane human tasks weren’t strictly necessary, but he was lingering for as long as he could and sometimes the routine simplicity of little rituals like this were nice. Slipping in to his trench coat, he frowned when he felt the absence of his angel blade. 

Sam walked out of the bathroom scrubbing a towel over his wet hair, muscular body nude. Castiel appreciated the sight, watching Sam pull on boxers and jeans. 

“My blade is missing. Again.”

Sam tossed the wet towel on the bed and rifled through his belongings on the bed side table. His wallet and flask of holy water went in to his pocket. A gun was tucked in the back of his jeans. Sam paused, and frowned. 

“Ruby’s knife isn’t where I left it either.”

Kneeling, Sam pressed himself close to the floor and groped under the bed. He came back up holding both weapons, passing the angel blade back to Castiel.  

“How do they keep ending up under the bed?”


	3. Chapter 3

If the Samulet could roll his beady little brass eyes, he would. They were fighting again. They were always fighting. Snarking and complaining at each other. As much as Samulet loved the broad strong chest of the one who owned him, there was nothing like being pressed between the two of them and that didn’t happen when they fought. 

The other was wearing the purple shirt with the graceful pale dog on it today. All Samulet wanted was to be crushed up against the stiff decal of the greyhound. The dog understood him, not like the wild plaids and the plain white tees. Samulet wanted more than a warm chest to rest against, even an amulet could have needs. Even an amulet and a dog decal could find love together. 

When the boys finally stopped their bickering, Samulet felt the world tilt as he hung away from his and towards other, bumping just so gently against the other’s chest. His spiky horns brushed soft cotton. Shifting, jostled, eventually the two settled and he was nestled between their bodies with his whole face pressed against the dog. 

The dog crinkled and scratched against him, a thick stiff material that caught on all his bumps. Rubbed between two bodies, the friction had his hard brass dragging rough against the dog, who folded and wrinkled around him. 

It didn’t last nearly as long as he needed before the dog was torn away, the shirt so callously tossed aside while Samulet was trapped between bare skin now. He was left there, always, around his owner’s neck. The Samulet knew no other world, not like the dog who had traveled so many places, seen so many floors and canvas bags. 

Though their bodies were warm and comforting, Samulet was lonely. When the noises faded and he stilled on top of the warm chest, Samulet felt something cool and flimsy swipe over him. The dog had come for him. Tangled and swaddled safely with his dog, Samulet rested.

-

Sam woke up curled on one side of the motel bed, and his back was cold. Rolling over, he saw Dean on the other side huddled almost into a ball. The purple shirt Sam had been wearing yesterday – which had been flung on the chair on his side of the bed – was bundled up in Dean’s arms. What the fuck. Any time Sam wore that shirt, Dean woke up with it. 

Scooting closer to Dean’s side, Sam wrapped his arms around his brother. Dean snuffled and blinked, pushing his ass back against Sam. 

“Wha – hey g’mornin. Wait, was I sleep walking again last night?” Dean rubbed an eye blearily and held up Sam’s shirt. 

“I have no fucking clue man.”

Grunting, Dean twisted around to face Sam. Crumpled shirt still clutched to his chest, Dean breathed deeply and curled up in Sam’s arm with his face smashed up against Sam’s chest, the shirt pressed between them. 

“Smells like you, s’nice.”

Folding his brother up in his arms, Sam pushed a leg between Dean’s thighs. “But I’m right here, you can sniff me.”


	4. Chapter 4

-

She waited on the edge of the table where she had been left. A heavy and still thing, she wouldn’t move. Trained to the touch and mood of her owner - she understood him through the sweat of his palms and firmness of his grip - she would stay exactly where she was. This was an important thing. So she remained, the noisy exertions of her owner and his lover having died down some time ago, and now the motel room was only filled with their snuffling sleep sounds and the distant hum of traffic.

The whispering started first. The gentle susurration of pages being turned, interspersed with the heavy thud of the journal’s cover. He had been left on the table with her tonight. Heavy and still, she let him come to her. A tipped bottle hit the table-top with a clatter, rolled and dropped onto the floor. There was a shuffle from the bed, but they settled.

The worn soft leather edge of his cover bumped against her side first. Pages rustled as he shifted over her. Paper steeped and stained with the years. Blood and sweat and tears telling their own stories in the journal, alongside incredible tales of terrible monsters and the deep-gouged lines of mad renderings, some marks near scratching through the pages. It must be painful, to be so used.

Page by page, he covered her. The scrape of the occasional paper clip, hangnail-tape corner edges of articles and photos, heavy metals pinned to the inside cover, were rough things. It was a slow building weight, the slide of his pages against the engraved metal and smooth ivory of her body.

The two edges of the journal’s leather-bound cover slide to either side of her barrel, pushing it up tented over-top of her. It was a quiet, covert place he created for her, in the shade of his stories.

-

The shower was still running, the room muggy with steam and Dean didn’t feel like pulling on more than a pair of boxer-briefs. Swiping on deodorant, he stood in front of the maps and snipped out tidbits of lore, printed photos of victims and newspaper clippings, that made a mural on the motel wall. This goddam case was a nightmare.

Something niggled at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite touch. Tossing his deodorant back in his duffel, Dean went to swipe Dad’s journal off the table. It was sitting next to his gun. Frowning, he sat down heavily in the uncomfortable wood chair and flipped through the journal. The strap had been open, and as he thumbed through pages he found a few that had been torn loose.

Rummaging through his supplies, Dean found a roll of duct tape and tore off small strips to reinforce the pages. The water in the bathroom turned off as he worked, but it would be a few minutes of preening before Sam came out.

Dean still couldn’t find what he needed.

Chest colored brightly with new and old bruises - some from the job, some from Dean’s mouth - Sam walked out with a thin towel wrapped around his waist, hair brushed back and cheeks shaved smooth.

“Hey, Sam, be gentle with this,” Dean told him, still buried in the journal. “Found a few pages loose.”

Sam stopped, looked at him funny. “I didn’t look through Dad’s journal this morning.”

Dean blinked at him, finger holding his page. “Huh. Wasn’t where I left it last night.”


	5. Chapter 5

-

Hot with the sun and heat of summer, muggy with the sweat and heat of two bodies, the jacket lay spread across the front seat of Baby. Even with her windows down, the sex-funk clung like a miasma.

Rumpling and sliding off the front seat to land on the back, the jacket sat in a sprawling heap half on the seat and half into the foot-well. Baby’s seat sunk with the muscle memories of the boys she held every day, cradling the jacket as if he were as precious.

The age-worn leather of her seats retained the heat of bodies, freshly wet with sweat and semen, the mess forgotten in favor of whatever they boys did in quiet stillness lain across her hood. Out past the glass of the front window, underneath darkening inky spread of endless sky.

The leather jacket, lined with age, had spent time in nearly every nook and cranny of Baby. Or so it seemed. Jammed in her foot-wells, folded in the trunk, forgotten in the backseat. The jacket liked the back seat best.

There were memories here, of all the bodies of this exceptional family that she’s carried. The young love that made these two boys who currently called her home. Times before the smell of blood and smoke seeped in to her. The jacket had been there for better times as well.

But these were good times too. Another cycle of hungry love, two bodies tangled naked over leather seats, the jacket every now and then called on to serve as a pillow rolled up beneath a head or covering bare hips against the shiver of on-setting night.

It was nice, having time to spend with just Baby. Sinking further back along her seat, curling into a little ball and patiently digging deep in the crease of the seat, the jacket made itself comfortable in Baby’s familiar hold.

-

“God, how did this get wedged in here.”

Sam watched the curve of Dean’s ass wiggling as he knelt in the back seat pulling his jacket out of the crease. Dean had fucked him stupid an hour ago, and he was getting hard again. Being sixteen was difficult.

“Ha!”

Emerging triumphant with the old leather jacket, Dean shook it out, pulled it on over his t-shirt. The night air was a little chilly, but it was a refreshing break from the day’s heat.

“We going to sleep outside?” Sam asked.

He should probably grab a sweater if they were, but it was a good night for it. The sky was clear and starry, moon half full shining silver over the wild-weed fields that swayed in the breeze around them. Parked on a rutted dirt road, no one would disturb them out here if they just laid out blankets and slept under the sky.

“You want to?” Dean leaned against the side of the Impala, head tipped up to the stars and Sam loved the way his lips parted in wonder, sometimes, quiet times like this between the two of them.

“Yeah.”

The car was more comfortable, leather seats worn to softness, but he was growing so much that he couldn’t stretch his legs out straight anymore.

“Get some blankets out of the trunk,” Dean told him.

Sam moved to get the blankets, and Dean was pulling root-beer out of the green cooler in the foot-well, ice melted to water by now but the glass was just a little chilly when Dean passed it to him.

Leaning against Dean, who leaned against the car, Sam rubbed his cheek against the cracked brown leather of his jacket and sighed.


End file.
